


To Every Wandering Bark

by scienceblues



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Anal Sex, Community: trekmas, Domestic, F/M, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Oral Sex, Shore Leave, Shower Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-02
Updated: 2013-01-02
Packaged: 2017-11-23 08:01:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/619858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scienceblues/pseuds/scienceblues
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim has a period of adjustment to get through before he can enjoy the leave that follows the end of the first five-year mission. Living with his boyfriend and having his crew nearby makes it easier.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Every Wandering Bark

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2012 happy-trekmas exchange over at lj. My domesticity kink got the best of me on the length! If there are any mistakes in the fic I'll come back and fix them later because I've been fighting with lj too long to get this posted there and I'm tired of looking at this.
> 
> A few things: The Sulu/Chekov is only implied, so read or don't read with that in mind. The original characters are members of Sulu's family, by the way. Also: warning for brief mention of infertility.

“Okay, seriously, we just got pulled off Neutral Zone duty and now Starfleet’s burying us in paperwork?” Jim groans, thunking his head down onto the desk next to his PADD. It started out with sixty reports needing approval, and has nearly doubled in the last hour even with Jim reading at the fastest speed he can manage while still comprehending the information within. It’s been a pretty shitty hour, as far as ways off-duty time can be spent, especially when Spock is stretched out on the bed with some scientific journal or another as some light reading. He’s wearing a lightweight Vulcan robe – _only_ a lightweight Vulcan robe – and all of Jim’s self-control is currently focused on keeping his ass in his chair instead of walking over to plant it on Spock’s lap.

“Paperwork in anticipation of a year-long shore leave,” Spock reminds him mildly, not looking up from his own PADD. He taps the screen idly and then picks up the stylus to add a written comment, his long fingers testing Jim’s determination to catch up on his inbox before bed. “I would anticipate that you will find the reward well worth the effort.”

“Yeah, _after_ I get done with the effort part,” Jim grumbles, picking up his stylus and signing off on the latest Engineering report, which gave him a bit of a headache.

He doesn’t know how all of Scotty’s modifications will go over with the team of Spacedock engineers that are set to update and reshape the _Enterprise_ as soon as she docks, and he’s also certain he doesn’t _want_ to know. As long as it doesn’t come back to bite his captaincy in the ass – and he’s taken steps to ensure that, given how well he knows his Chief Engineer – he figures he’ll let the engineering geeks freak out about how the rigs Scotty’s set up are impossible under conventional knowledge, and stay none the wiser.

He struggles through another fourteen end-of-shift reports, lists of maintenance issues, and stocking statuses before an alert pings on his message screen. Puzzled, Jim opens the attached file and finds a neatly organized list of already-signed lab closure forms and final Sciences personnel reports, all of which can be completed by either the captain or first officer. Since these are lowest priority for preparing the ship to dock, they’re lowest on his list of tasks to complete, and the unexpected help essentially clears up the backlog of mundane tasks cluttering up his PADD.

Jim looks up in awe in time to see Spock set his PADD into the drawer of the bedside module and placidly fold his hands in his lap. “Holy shit, I love you so much right now.”

“I am aware,” Spock replies, shifting one eyebrow upwards to ask _why are you still sitting at the desk?_. Jim, who has become quite adept at reading eyebrow signals both subtle and blatant, scrambles out of his seat and onto the bed to give Spock his due gratitude for the assistance.

Gratitude starts off as heated kissing which turns into Jim’s ass _finally_ getting its due contact with Spock’s lap which turns into Spock getting a pretty kickass blowjob, with both of them extremely appreciative of the relatively low chance of a sudden yellow or red alert, which serves as a clear departure from the routine of the last few weeks along the border. Jim is aware of this because he’s personally ecstatic about that fact, and he makes an inference on Spock’s similar feelings on the subject from the tiny groans coming out of his mouth as Jim sucks the head back into his mouth and increases the pace of his hand on Spock’s shaft.

Jim’s mouth accidentally slips off Spock’s dick when Spock’s hips jerk unexpectedly as he’s coming, resulting in a painful click of his teeth together as his jaw hits the bed as well as a messy pool of come on the sheets. The sight makes Jim pout for a solid thirty seconds before he staggers reluctantly to his feet and grabs a washcloth from the bathroom to take care of the sheets while Spock stays sprawled in place. Jim is torn between feeling a mild sense of pride and flicking Spock for being lazy and making him move his legs out of the way to clean up, but discards the debate once he’s finished and tosses the cloth off the side of the bed.

“Hey, move over,” Jim prods, recoiling at the clammy feeling of the wet spot against his back. Through careful maneuvering and Jim’s ability to lay half on top of Spock if he wants to, thanks to Vulcan muscles rendering his weight manageable, they finally settle in a comfortable position they can keep until Spock has to leave and go to his room for the night.

Spock’s fingers thread a soothing repetition through Jim’s short hair for nearly fifteen minutes, alerting Jim to the apparently-troubled state of his thoughts. While he’s certainly fascinated by the alien texture of Jim’s hair, he never spends this long on it unless he needs reassurance. “You’re not allowed to get stressed for at least an hour after sex, you know,” he mumbles into the soft skin of Spock’s inner arm.

The fingers pause, and Spock removes his arm from across Jim’s back, letting Jim prop himself up on his arms and pay attention instead of running the risk of nodding off. “I wished to discuss shore leave with you,” Spock begins quietly, looking up at the ceiling to gather his thoughts.

“Go ahead,” Jim prompts.

“While I am aware that you may intend to spend time in your hometown because of your mother and brother’s return, I wish to make it clear that you are welcome to share my apartment for the entirety of your time in San Francisco. I am told that it is a marked improvement over the housing provided by Starfleet.”

Jim chuffs out an amused breath against Spock’s stomach, ruffling some of the fine hairs scattered there. “I’ll probably get guilt-tripped into visiting Riverside, sure, but that’s only going to be a week at the most. I think one of us would be driven to homicide if we spent any longer cooped up in an old farmhouse with nothing to do. You can come, too, if you want, but Kirk family gatherings tend to be more stressful than relaxing. But yeah, I’d love to stay over sometimes, as long as you promise not to get sick of me in your space.” He levels a winning grin at Spock across the planes of his chest, angling it upwards so Spock can see it from his position leaning against the pillows.

Spock’s eyes dart downwards, and he reaches out to trace along the top of Jim’s ear for a brief moment in order to continue. “You misunderstand. My apartment has ample space for you to set up residence, so there is no issue of space. I merely wish to know if you would like to cohabitate until the start of our next mission.”

Jim smiles again, but it’s softer this time, with sincere delight behind it. “Are you asking me to move in with you, Spock?” he drawls, reaching out to tangle his fingers with Spock’s.

With a quick squeeze in return, Spock nods. “I am,” he says.

They’ve been together for the better part of three years, but they’ve never run into this topic from the impossibility of it while on the ship. Starfleet’s been notified, and the crew is well aware of the nature of their relationship, but the fact remains that neither of them feels entirely comfortable leaving any doubt whose living quarters either of them will be in at any given moment, given the tendency of emergencies to crop up during gamma shift when both of them are sleeping. They could settle that by consolidating both of their living spaces into one room to share, but that step requires yet another round of paperwork and is usually discouraged by the Fleet for all except married couples. While there’s always the possibility of forging a telepathic bond between them, serving as the Vulcan equivalent of the Terran concept of marriage, that’s a decision for the future when Spock’s mind has recovered fully enough from the shock of Vulcan’s destruction that there’s no chance of hurting him. Jim doesn’t want to take any chances in that area, and Spock has thanked him already for letting his mind fully undergo the healing process of his clan’s violent removal from the telepathic centers of his brain.

Living together on and off the ship are different issues entirely, however, and Jim doesn’t see any reason he should restrain his urge to agree immediately and enthusiastically. So he does, adding, “I hope you don’t have one of those Vulcan mattresses like at your dad’s house, because those are _killer_ on my back,” and doesn’t object in the slightest when Spock pulls him in for a firm and drawn-out kiss.

* * * * *

“Next round is the captain’s round, am I right?” Scotty shouts excitedly, adding to the din of the crowded bar. For good measure, he thumps his emptied glass onto the round table hosting the bridge crew, tipping over the salt shaker in the center, and shoves good-naturedly at Jim’s shoulder.

“I can get behind that!” Jim replies loudly, hearing through a haze, and yeah, seems like he’s buzzed already – not surprising, since the last time he was able to have more than a glass because of duty constraints was last shore leave. But it’s the end of the mission, his crew has survived their last patrol along the Neutral Zone with no casualties, and he’s _finally_ finished all the paperwork required for docking. They deserve a celebration, dammit, and there’s no better place than the bar most cadets passed through at least once every weekend during their time at the Academy.

“Keptin, I think he is saying _you_ should pay,” Chekov explains too seriously, leaning his full weight onto the table. Probably for the best, since he looks like he’ll topple off his chair if not for the added support as well as Sulu’s hand hovering at the ready near the small of his back. He’s been drinking vodka like it’s water, which still makes his current level of inebriation impressive, given his slight frame.

Jim boos exaggeratedly, drawing a grumble of “ _Infant_ ” from McCoy at his other side and a small smile from Chapel, who was only reluctantly dragged along. “What do you all think captains get paid? You three put together would drink me out of house and home _in one night_ ,” he declares, drawing nods from the rest of the table as he points imprecisely at them, loose-limbed from the sudden removal of work-related stress.

His reason for keeping his drink intake under control shows up then, placing a cool hand against the base of his neck, bringing relief from the heated interior of the bar. Jim leans into the welcome touch and tilts his head backwards to grin up at Spock, pleased at how he doesn’t seem uncomfortable in the least among the throngs of cadets and officers. “Want to join us?” he offers, hoping Spock can hear him over the enthusiastic greetings from the rest of the table.

Spock nods once and drags his fingers along Jim’s skin as his hand slips away. Somehow, he manages to borrow a chair from a nearby table without much fuss – there’s only one Vulcan who could be wearing a Starfleet duty uniform, so maybe the cadets’ easy agreement to relinquish the chair isn’t so surprising – and fits it into the space next to Jim’s chair, never mind that it puts him at risk of teasing from McCoy.

“What are your plans until the next mission, Spock?” Uhura asks, raising her voice to be heard across the table. Not that it’s a problem for Spock to hear her, but they’ve all learned that conversation can fall apart if they don’t compensate for poorer human hearing anyway.

With the amount of work crammed into the last two weeks between their retreat from border patrol and the close of debriefing sessions for the crew, Jim’s not all too surprised that Uhura hasn’t gotten to ask Spock about that earlier. Usually they make time to see each other a few times each week – not an issue, with both of their significant others having the tendency to spend too much time working – but the crew’s regular schedules have been thrown off for much of the last portion of their mission.

“I plan to remain in San Francisco and am currently investigating which teaching positions are available for the Academy’s upcoming semester,” he replies, and while that part’s news to Jim, he knows it’ll be good for him. Spock isn’t one to sit around idly, though Jim previously guessed it would be the Academy’s science labs and open research positions that would tempt him out of leisure after the first few days of leave.

Maybe he should look into teaching, too. He doesn’t think he’d like classroom teaching, but he has advanced fighting and survival techniques as well as a store of other practical shit that is the stuff of legends. If he could manage to get a hands-on class, it might do him some good to teach instead of just bumming around in Spock’s apartment for the entirety of shore leave.

“Are you planning to visit your father?” Uhura asks. Her question draws Scotty’s attention, and both of them look curious about Spock’s answer beyond the level of interest for casual conversation. Jim hopes he’ll remember to ask Spock later if he knows anything about that – Uhura might be interested in visiting New Vulcan to help with recording ancient dialects of the Vulcan language for posterity, who knows.

While Spock and Sarek’s relationship has grown by leaps and bounds since the beginning of the mission, Jim is of the opinion that the week-long visit they’d taken during ship repairs once was the longest the two of them could stay in the same house without devolving into subtle Vulcan nitpicking. It reminds Jim of his family. “Not at the moment,” Spock finally replies. Unlike the last one, that answer doesn’t come as a surprise at all. “Though I do not doubt that his duties will bring him to Earth at some point before the ship next launches.”

Sulu beckons for a refill then, and once the bartender has sent a fresh round their way, he lifts his glass up. “Well, since you all are planning to stick around San Francisco for most of our break, you should come have dinner at Nana’s sometime. Let’s make sure we see each other before the next mission, yeah?”

Everyone agrees, with Chekov and Scotty shouting their assent enthusiastically. “Good, I don’t have to make it an order,” Jim says with a grin. His crew, his _family_ is staying together for the next year, and suddenly being away from the _Enterprise_ for so long doesn’t seem as bad.

* * * * *

They enter the apartment at one in the morning – Jim leaning on Spock as they exit the cab, because while he’s nowhere near drunk enough to need the support, he’s not one to pass up physical contact and Spock’s not one to object because he enjoys it just as much when they’re alone. The dark sky outside and the low lights indoors cause shadows to pool at the corners of the living room and around the base of the stairs, allowing Jim to play his charade out until they reach the bedroom, where they both dump their duffel bags on the floor of the closet. The rest of their belongings remain in boxes and bags inside the temporary Starfleet housing they were required to stay in during their debriefing. Jim’s sure that Spock will wake him up at some ungodly hour the next day and force him to move his shit into the apartment, but for now, Jim just crawls onto the bed and settles into the middle.

Standing at the foot of the bed, Spock unties Jim’s shoes and places them next to his already-removed pair by the closet. “Does the mattress meet your approval?” he asks dryly, reminding Jim of his comment a week earlier. He lets out a laugh and reaches for Spock’s hands with both of his.

“With as much space as there is? It could be a rock and I wouldn’t care,” Jim admits. “Why do you have a bed this huge, anyway? Are there regular Vulcan orgies I can get an invite for? I knew the Ambassador was keeping secrets.”

“I am certain you would be aware of those orgies before I did, if they indeed existed. Additionally, I would appreciate it if you would not declare your interest in sexual relations with my counterpart,” Spock says. His tone has lost its hint of humor from before, but with the buzz centered in his head, Jim can’t tell if he’s actually pissed or not. Jim squints up at him, trying to figure it out, and decides Spock probably didn’t appreciate the comment at the very least.

Fair enough. “C’mere,” Jim urges, taking advantage of their joined hands to pull Spock down towards the bed. He doesn’t actually lay down, instead preferring to lean close over Jim and use his elbows to support his torso, while Jim makes a face at the remaining gap between their bodies. “Sorry about that. You know you’re my only favorite Vulcan,” he murmurs, pressing his face into Spock’s neck and inhaling deeply. The familiar scent of alien skin, bare of human indicators like sweat, dissipates some of the weight in his head and grounds him in the slight warmth of the body above him and the give of the thick blanket against his back.

Taking care not to jostle Jim, Spock stretches to press a kiss to Jim’s forehead and then straightens. “I do not doubt it,” he admits. He digs their shared bag of bathroom necessities out of his bag and then heads for the small attached bathroom.

Jim studies the ceiling for a long moment, considering the fact that he’s moved in with Spock, and while it’s temporary for the moment, he can’t go back. Then he considers the fact that he doesn’t particularly want to go back and decides he really isn’t bothered by this progression. “We are totally fucking in this bed in the morning,” he announces, knowing Spock will hear him even over the sound of the sink. “It would be a crime not to use all this room.”

The sink goes abruptly quiet. A minute later, he hears Spock faintly answer, “Very well, Jim.”

He lays there a little longer, and then drags himself up to get ready for bed.

* * * * *

Sunlight streaming freely through the window nearly blinds Jim when he wakes, groaning and turning over so he can bury his face in Spock’s blanket-covered shoulder. It’s much darker and infinitely more comfortable there, so Jim pretends he’s been asleep the whole time and tries to convince his body to go back to sleep. One of the best parts of shore leave is waking up later than seven in the morning, and he’s still planning on exploiting that privilege even though he has a year of it in front of him.

Not long after he starts dozing, Jim becomes aware of the uncomfortable state of his bladder and is forced out of bed, lumbering stiffly to the bathroom. The hours he’s put in noting the condition of the ship’s systems from cramped access areas recently manifests in a tightness pulling across the length of his calves, reminding him that he forgot to take any painkillers yesterday – all the time spent running between buildings on the Academy’s campus prevented him from doing so, and the drinks from last night dulled the ache well enough that he didn’t notice. He fishes a bottle of pills out of the medicine cabinet and swallows one dry, hoping it’ll kick in soon enough. Despite his ability to work through most pain, aches like this are the worst, and sitting around on the first day of vacation with cramping legs doesn’t appeal to him in the least.

When he reemerges from the bathroom, Spock is leaning up against the headboard with the blanket pulled aside, leaving a perfectly-sized space for Jim to nestle back into the sheets and settle close against Spock’s side. Jim grabs Spock’s hand with his own, holding his arm in place across Jim’s back, and leans against it, readily agreeing to the silent offer to rest for a while longer.

“Is there anything we need to get today for the apartment?” Jim asks quietly, when his stomach finally alerts him to the fact that it’s nearly ten in the morning and he’s breaking his routine of eating before shift. “Groceries, anything like that? I think I saw a market at the corner last night.”

“There is a functioning replicator in the dining area,” Spock remarks, as if he honestly thinks that’s sufficient.

Jim whacks him lightly on the stomach to let him know how _not_ okay that is. “We’re not eating replicated food on our first day of leave! You, me, the kitchen, tonight. We’ll stop by that market beforehand and see what we want to have for the next few days, and in the meantime, we can go out for breakfast. Brunch. Whatever it is by the time we get out of here.”

“Very well,” Spock says amiably, releasing Jim and carefully unfolding his legs from under the covers. Once he’s out, he sits cross-legged and facing Jim. “Your legs, please.”

Jim stares at him in confusion. “What?” he asks. He doesn’t want to move his legs. He knows he’ll have to later, when they go shopping, but he’s going to put that off until his stomach actually stages a rebellion.

“Your surface thoughts are busy attempting to deflect the pain in your legs, and therefore were easy to detect,” Spock replies, beckoning for Jim’s legs with his fingers again. This time, Jim complies, submitting to the assault on his sore muscles that immediately follows. Despite the brief unpleasantness that comes from skinny fingers digging right into the aching areas, it soon produces a sense of relief as the muscles loosen.

“I still don’t want to move my legs,” Jim murmurs finally. The tension has disappeared entirely, and he’s feeling lax and lazily satisfied as he continues to stretch out over the bed and onto Spock’s lap. “But I do want real food later, so there’s that.”

“Perhaps I can provide incentive,” Spock replies, voice low in a way Jim’s heard countless times since they started testing how a relationship would survive the demands of the service. His fingers move up to the slight bulge that appeared in Jim’s sleep shorts sometime during the massage and wrap around the cloth-covered erection, squeezing once. Jim’s head falls back at the pressure – he expected it to continue on his legs, but _fuck_ , it looks like he can make good on his earlier promise. Spock pulls down on the waistband of his shorts, then, and Jim happily assists with scooting them down over his hips and kicking them off over the side of the bed.

Spock brings him off with practiced ease, long fingers pulling at his cock to leave Jim gasping and coming in a few short minutes. Leaning down to kiss him, Spock says, “Wash and then we may leave for brunch, if you wish,” against his mouth, making Jim contemplate the merits of laying in a sated heap versus getting food. Food wins after a minute, and he hauls himself to his feet, joining Spock in the bathroom to clean up and dress.

They find a small diner tucked between a coffeehouse and an electronics store on the way to the market and head inside. While Jim salivates over the display case filled with fresh-baked goods at the front counter, Spock finds a suitable table against one of the side walls and sits, taking his time in perusing a menu. When Jim remembers himself and joins him, he tries not to look embarrassed in the slightest about how well a few pies derailed him.

“So do you not know how to cook?” Jim asks once the owner’s daughter comes to take their order. “Because if you say you’re really okay with eating replicated food on a regular basis while we’re on Earth, I’m going to be very disappointed.”

“I did not say I wish to replicate meals on a _regular_ basis,” Spock points out. “However, it is correct that I have not mastered the ability to cook properly. My mother enlisted me in assisting with the preparation of Terran meals often during my childhood, but once I proved incapable, she became satisfied if I merely watched to learn the recipe. I believe she hoped that I would gain the ability once I grew older, but I have not yet become proficient.”

“Took me a while, too, but you can give it another shot if you want. Dinner tonight’s going to be awesome,” Jim declares, stirring some sugar into his coffee. “Do you want anything in particular?”

“I do not have a preference.”

“Okay, we’ll just see what they have there.” The waitress arrives with their meals, and Jim takes a huge bite of his burger as soon as he slops the right amount of ketchup onto it. Compared to even the best food available onboard and in the Academy cafeteria, it tastes _amazing_ , leaving Jim with no sense of regret about the fact that he’’’ have to brush his teeth before he can get near Spock again. With the inferior olfactory senses of a Vulcan, Spock doesn’t mind when he eats meat, but refuses to get too close until Jim’s mouth is clear of all traces.

A few bites in, Jim notices Spock looking at him and glances down at his shirt, checking for an unnoticed stain. His shirt is clean, and he looks questioningly at Spock, who makes a quietly dismissive noise.

Shrugging it off, Jim asks, “Want a fry?”

“Thank you, Jim.” Spock scoops a fry off Jim’s plate and chews it slowly, still looking in Jim’s direction but not staring any longer. Jim knows for a fact that it wasn’t what Spock actually wanted, but he doesn’t seem too concerned about it, so Jim isn’t, either.

* * * * *

Jim finds out later that night how much Spock deviated earlier from his usual attempt to remain truthful unless otherwise necessary. Unfortunately, it coincides with the preparation of their dinner, when Jim gets a comm from a frantic Sulu wanting to know if he’s seen any sign of a missing Chekov. Ten minutes into their search party planning, when Jim is nearly finished composing a message to his other close friends to join him in searching the area for Chekov, Sulu gets a comm from a bartender three streets over from where he lost Chekov asking him to come pick up an inebriated Russian. Jim rolls his eyes, ends the comm, and steps back into the kitchen, which became a disaster zone in his absence.

Jim thinks he _almost_ has enough proof to refute the claim that Vulcans don’t lie. Almost.

“There is no way this can just be classified as _not proficient_ ,” Jim says in horror, surveying the cooking area. “This is an assault on meal preparation. You are cooking’s archnemesis.”

Meanwhile, Spock flounders uncertainly around the remains of the stir fry, looking for a safe place to put down the spoon. “Can it not be recovered?” he asks, looking askance at the stovetop.

Jim glances dubiously at the mess of brittle, blackened vegetables contained within the pan. “No,” he says finally. “I’m just wondering if it has to be put in a biohazardous waste container. We have those on the ship, right?”

Spock’s shoulders slump minutely, and Jim abandons his amazement at the level of which their dinner has been obliterated and goes to give Spock a hug. “You know what?” he asks, resting his chin on Spock’s shoulder.

“Yes?” Spock says quietly, still surveying the damage.

“I couldn’t really believe you earlier when you said you couldn’t cook, since you’re such a star scientist. But I kind of took your word for it, and I only put in half of what we bought for the stir fry,” Jim admits.

Spock turns his head to look at Jim. “You can still prepare dinner?” he asks, a faintly hopeful lilt to his voice.

Jim chuckles and leaves a kiss on Spock’s cheek as he pulls away. “Yes, _I_ can. You’re going to get yourself something to drink and just sit and ogle the chef, okay?”

“Very well.” Spock accepts his role without question or fuss, unlike most tasks that require him to be sidelined. Jim keeps him occupied by asking about how his debriefing yet, letting the universally unappealing nature of the admiralty’s inquiries into the five-year mission smooth over the sight of him discarding the ruined vegetables and washing the flaky remnants down the drain. From the sound of it, his debrief was even more exhausting in its level of detail than even Jim’s – somewhat unusual, given his superior rank, but not entirely unexpected due to the performance expected from Spock because of his species. By the time Spock finishes, no longer looking disappointed in his utter inability to supervise food, Jim has steamed the vegetables and rice and is ready to serve their portions into bowls, counting the entire endeavor as a success.

“Commander Hlarian approached me in the mess afterwards,” Spock adds as an afterthought to the account of his ordeal. “She is taking a year-long research opportunity on Gamonica IX and wishes me to preside over her classes in order to continue her curriculum. I believe she is concerned that some of the candidates for her temporary replacement will not hold students quite to her standards.”

“I don’t think there are very many people who could,” Jim says dryly, adding a bit more soy sauce to his bowl. The commander is infamous about campus, even more so than Spock was while at the Academy, as a dedicated proponent of the school of learning that dictates knowledge of all relevant details, no matter the level of the class. While most of them do have some practical purpose – it is Starfleet involved, after all, and Jim’s found that survival often hinges on the tiniest things – one of the more popular activities for cadets revolves around bitching about classes like hers. Jim spent time laughing about everyone’s complaints until he took her Basic Klingon and Romulan classes in the second semester of his second year, requirements for all command cadets that went far beyond the basics of both languages due to the unstable nature of relations with both empires. He came out of the class generally impressed with everything she chose to be as well as more sympathy for those with horror stories. “You going to accept?”

Spock slides some of his watercress into a pile on the other side of the bowl, stubbornly attempting to keep it separate despite the slow slide down the curved side towards the rest of his portion. Jim takes pity on him and spears the pile of watercress on his own fork while Spock thinks over his answer. “I believe I will,” Spock finally replies. “I very much admire her effort in imparting a rudimentary working knowledge of all important languages on cadets, even more so after this past mission. While I ordinarily prefer the higher levels of language classes and would not wish to teach Introductory Andorian, for example, I believe accepting her request would contribute to a fulfilling academic year.”

“Good.” Jim pops the watercress into his mouth and crunches it away before speaking again, knowing how much that irritates Spock. “Besides, with the lack of a native speaker, a diplomat’s kid is probably the next best thing. Well. Is Hlarian a native speaker?”

“I believe so, but I have chosen not to pry. The admiralty lists her level of experience as its equivalent, and I do not require any further detail.” Coming from anyone else, it might seem like a rebuke for Jim’s curiosity, but Jim’s been reading Spock with terrifying accuracy for just over four years and recognizes it as merely an acknowledgment of the difference in human and Vulcan natures.

Jim lifts his hand and starts counting off. “Okay, Basic Klingon, Basic Romulan. What other classes are you lobbying for?”

“Advanced Vulcan, as I am the only available native speaker, as well as the Advanced Simulations seminar. I believe four classes, as well as additional work in various science labs, will serve as an acceptable courseload for both semesters.”

The name of the second course tugs at Jim’s memory, and he chases the connection until he remembers where he knows it from. “Programming the Maru again?” he asks, grinning. “Are you forgetting the existence of little shits like me, or does crushing the souls of everyone else make up for it?”

Spock barely dignifies that with a response, which Jim should have expected. “I do not anticipate any difficulties similar to the ones you caused,” he merely says, fishing out the last scoop of stir fry and chewing it while leveling an unimpressed look at Jim. “However, in the event that someone is brilliant enough to cause trouble regarding the simulation, you have no need to worry about replacement again. Clearly, I cannot even provide for my own basic needs,” Spock finishes dryly, stealing the last piece of broccoli out of Jim’s bowl.

Jim laughs loudly and slugs Spock on the shoulder. “You asshole, I had a legitimate reason to worry that time!” he says, the laughter taking any bite out of his words. He doesn’t like being reminded of the time he became convinced that Spock was going to leave him for Lieutenant Kalomi when she transferred into the botany department, considering how ridiculously wrong his assumption turned out. Finding out that they were in a relationship for nearly a year before Spock graduated from the Academy led to a full week when Jim avoided Spock and what he thought was an inevitable break-up. Not one of his finer moments.

Of course, Sulu’s awkward offer of information that Kalomi harbored a bit of a grudge against Spock for breaking up with her helped settle Jim’s miniature crisis. Jim’s still not sure who was more uncomfortable during that conversation, as it stemmed from the fact that Sulu noticed Jim keeping only to his own quarters during that week.

Something occurs to Jim, and he’s almost certain Spock will be on board for it. “Would it be alright if we had some of the crew over for dinner sometime?” he asks. “Obviously just the ones we’re friends with, but since Sulu’s hosting the one at his family’s house, and then Scotty and Uhura are offering their house in place of the rec room to have poker and everything, so it might be nice to do for the crew.”

Spock stares at Jim for a moment. “Of course. Jim, you now live here as well.”

“Oh.” A half-remembered piece of information niggles at the edge of his consciousness, something about customs dating back to ancient Vulcan regarding the status of official occupants, but he shoves it away. He knows what Spock means by it, anyway. “Good.”

Jim reaches out and skates two of his fingers over the back of Spock’s hand in a clumsy display of thanks, prompting a warm look. He’s fairly certain he’s has been painfully transparent to Spock in his discomfort off the ship, but if this is home for the time being, Jim thinks he can start adjusting to that.

He means to actually thank Spock, but what comes out instead is, “Want to help me clean up? We can warm up that pie from the market, too. I’ll handle the oven, I promise.”

Spock flicks him on the ear in retaliation for the joke but doesn’t look affected by his earlier failure, so Jim counts it as a success.

* * * * *

The next morning, Spock leaves for the Academy to lodge a request to instruct his preferred classes during the upcoming semester. Jim wakes after Spock’s already gone, lays around for a while feeling useless, and finally drags his lazy ass out of bed to go visit McCoy.

When he shows up at the doorstep and enters his name so the comm system will alert McCoy to his presence, he spends nearly ten minutes waiting at the entrance to the shitty apartment building. McCoy finally decides to buzz him up with no added comment, text or otherwise, which Jim takes as a bad sign. He’s feeling rather apprehensive and is reconsidering the wisdom of this visit by the time he makes it up the flights of stairs – and seriously, the place doesn’t even have a lift? – but knocks on the door anyway. No matter how much of a grouch McCoy is today, it can’t be worse than some of the other times they’ve gone through at the Academy and on the ship.

Surprisingly, McCoy looks relatively normal when he answers the door, shaved and everything. “Why the hell are you here so early?” he says by way of greeting, stepping backwards to let Jim in. Not anything to be alarmed about, then – if there was, Jim would be able to tell by this point.

“Nothing to do,” Jim admits, heading straight for the couch and commandeering an entire half of it. McCoy rolls his eyes at him as he shuts the door and walks off into another room. Jim cranes his head back and sees a few unattached, mismatched counter-topped cabinets, along with a battered coffeemaker that McCoy’s busy operating.

“That’s the point of vacation, Jimmy,” McCoy reminds him, voice carrying in from the tiny kitchen. “You know, the thing you’ve had a hankering for the last few months? Or do you just enjoy complaining that you miss taking time off when you’re working and vice versa?”

“You’re a funny guy, Bones,” Jim says dryly, accepting the coffee cup waved in front of him. It’s still too hot, but he takes a few cautious sips anyway.

McCoy takes a seat on the chair next to the couch and raises his own mug in a salute to his overactive sense of humor. “Always said so. Joanna gets it from me, not her mother.”

“How were they during the weekend?” Jim asks, genuinely interested. It just happens to have the added bonus of delaying the discussion of his miniature crisis of uselessness.

McCoy shrugs. “Great seeing Jo, but Jocelyn’s sticking to letting me visit every other weekend despite the fact that I’ll be gone for another five years after this one. At least it’s seeing her in person instead of sending vidcoms. Now what’s this about nothing to do? Did the hobgoblin break up with you?”

“Like I said, you’re a funny guy,” Jim says, rolling his eyes. “He’s going in to get appointed as instructor for at least a few classes for the next two semesters, and I didn’t feel like hanging around his apartment alone. Nothing wrong with that.”

“There is when you’re miserable about it. Is he not paying enough attention to you?”

“Not funny, Bones. I’m being serious,” Jim complains.

“Well, so am I! Is he working all hours, even though we’re on leave? I know he did that on the ship sometimes, that’s why I’m asking.”

Jim shakes his head and takes a few gulps of the coffee, wincing a little at the burn of flavor down his throat. “No, nothing like that. It’s me more than him – he’s out working already, and I have no idea what the hell I should do for the next year. I’m already bumming off his apartment, so I can’t leave it too long. What are you doing, anyway?”

“Me? I’m doing some clinic hours at Starfleet Medical, but nothing major. Mostly special cases where they need someone experienced in crazy, and I’m on call for emergencies when they need me. That’s normal for officers on leave, though – you should know to never measure yourself by Spock’s standards,” McCoy says, gesturing with his empty cup for emphasis. “ _He_ might be perfectly happy to work close to a regular schedule on what’s supposed to be a vacation, but first of all, he’s Vulcan and doesn’t have the same recreational needs as a human, and second, he _likes_ working all hours. Anything less than that probably fits within vacation norms for him. Though you’d know that, seeing as you’re the one living with him.”

“Yeah, I guess,” Jim relents, setting his cup on the bare coffee table. “You don’t think anyone else is planning on putting in those hours?”

“If they are, I’m putting a recommendation in for a psych eval,” McCoy says firmly, looking relieved that Jim’s understood what he’s saying. “Any human who wants to keep going at the pace we set onboard is doing it for some awful reason, is what I’m saying. You can pick a light load and get your year of relaxation in while Spock’s off being brilliant in the classroom, and you’ll both be happier for it. Just don’t visit me too often – the rest of the bridge crew wants to see you, and I for one don’t want to see your sorry ass on my doorstep every day.”

“Love you too, Bones,” Jim says earnestly as he stands from the couch, prompting an eyeroll from McCoy. “Might as well get on that now. Thanks for the coffee.”

“Alright, kid. Don’t forget, dinner at Sulu’s house on Thursday,” McCoy says, calling out to where Jim’s halfway out the door.

Jim flashes him a thumbs up and shuts the door behind him, taking the stairs at a light jog.

* * * * *

The jog takes him out of the building and carries over for miles in and around the city, taking him through all the old routes he used on the days he needed to get off the Academy grounds for a while. Though he didn’t intend to go for a run when he left the apartment, he’s at least wearing suitable clothes, and when he shows up back at Spock’s apartment an hour later, drenched in sweat from the heat that appeared halfway through and feeling more on track with his decision about the rest of leave.

After a quick shower, he’s back downstairs, munching on an apple – and god, he forgot how much different fresh apples taste from replicated ones – when Spock comes in the door, wearing a black instructor’s uniform and looking inordinately pleased with himself, as much as he can.

To Jim’s relief, the sight doesn’t send him into another spiral of worry like it would’ve earlier. He takes a minute to appreciate the sight of Spock in that uniform – which he can do now, since he’s not in trouble like the first time he saw him in it – and even gets a back view once Spock heads for the refrigeration unit to dig out the pasta salad and set it on the counter. “I’m guessing it went as planned?” Jim asks, finishing off the apple. “Looks like it did.”

When Jim scoots between Spock and the counter to throw the apple core into the recycler, Spock takes Jim around the waist and kisses him soundly, leaning him against the countertop. “It did,” Spock says, with more satisfaction in his voice than Jim has heard in a long time, even in private. He realizes then that Spock’s eagerness to return to Starfleet service by inserting himself back into the Academy isn’t anything more than a simple love for teaching – something Jim should have expected, for someone as infatuated with knowledge as Spock. Happy for him, Jim draws him in for another kiss, appreciatively smoothing his hands over the sleek lines of tailored fabric clinging to Spock’s lean torso.

“So you changed as soon as you got the uniform just so you could walk home in it? That’s cute,” Jim teases, speaking against Spock’s mouth. While it has the unfortunate effect of making Spock lean back out of his space, not quite enough to make Jim’s arms fall away from where they hang on his hips, Jim does spot a hint of amusement in Spock’s eyes.

“Indeed not. One of the linguistics instructors was unexpectedly ill, and Admiral Barnett asked me to provide my assistance for that class period today,” Spock replies. “Fortunately, however, they have no further need of me until the semester begins.”

“See, and you didn’t even miss lunch. Leftovers?” Jim asks, nodding towards the pasta salad.

Spock nods and pulls away fully, reaching into the cabinets for some plates. “That is acceptable.”

Jim sautés some vegetables anyway, since he knows there’s at least a fifty percent chance Spock didn’t eat anything in the morning because of his appointment with the admiralty. He sticks mostly with the pasta salad, eating a portion McCoy would probably object to and stealing only a few pieces of summer squash off Spock’s plate as they eat at the kitchen counter. “So what have you heard about Sulu’s grandmother?” Jim asks idly, wondering about the dinner later in the week. “He’s only told me a few things, and I feel like he might be exaggerating.”

Spock swallows his bite before answering. “Ensign Chekov met her during his time at the Academy. From what he has told me, she single-handedly ensures the comfort and supervises the work ethic of the entire family, particularly Lieutenant Sulu, since her other grandchildren live and work on Earth. Beyond that, I cannot say.”

“Yeah, okay, that just about lines up with what Sulu said,” Jim says. “Guess dinner will be interesting. Do you have any family you want to visit?”

Spock pauses. “I am unsure,” he says quietly, picking at the mostly-emptied plate. “My mother does have surviving family members, though I have only met several in person on two occasions. I do not know if my presence would be welcome after her death.”

“It should be,” Jim says bluntly. “Listen, as long as they’re not shits, they’ll want to keep in contact with any family. Especially now – you’ve had time to grieve, they’ve had time to grieve, and now you both might benefit from having another connection to her. I could be wrong because my family’s not the best to learn from, but trying might be good if you want.”

Nodding once, Spock says, “I will think on it.”

* * * * *

It’s dark and early when Spock crawls back into bed. “’S matter?” Jim asks muzzily, squinting over his shoulder at Spock as he climbs back into the sheets. He abruptly realizes that he has no idea of the time or any way to check it, since Spock’s apartment doesn’t have a centralized system like the shipwide computer.

“Nothing is wrong,” Spock replies, pulling Jim gently backwards. Boneless, Jim obliges, letting Spock maneuver him until his back is settled snugly against Spock’s chest.

“You sure?” Jim asks. It’s hard to tell, but Spock feels tense. Jim grabs at Spock’s hand where it’s resting on his chest and squeezes once, keeping it in a loose grip.

“Yes.” After a long stretch of silence, when Jim feels close to drifting off, Spock explains, “I would like to visit my mother’s family.”

The admission jolts Jim awake, as he’s well-aware of the nasty emotions that must have just come up with that decision. He flips over within the cocoon of blanket and wraps his body firmly around Spock’s, saying, “That’s good. You feeling okay? Need to meditate?”

Spock shakes his head, an un-Vulcan gesture that he only gives in to when he’s not fully focused on his mannerisms. “I made the decision during meditation. I – I am not yet recovered, but I believe this may help. Your advice was surprisingly insightful in that regard.”

Jim doesn’t even consider whacking him lightly like he might in a less serious conversation for that remark. “Glad to hear that. Sleep’ll help you process, right?” The intricacies of the Vulcan brain fly far beyond him, but Jim feels certain he’s on the right track in this instance.

“Yes. I may not wake before you in the morning.”

“S’okay. Sleep all you need to feel better, okay?”

Spock nods, nose brushing against the crown of Jim’s head – another unusual action for him, proving how off-balance this session of meditation has clearly left him. “I miss her,” he admits quietly, burying the words into Jim’s hair.

Jim’s heart breaks for Spock in moments like this when he lets some of the emotion out. Normally he’s better coping in the Vulcan way, but occasionally he starts feeling too much and has to let go of some of it. “I know,” Jim replies, just as quiet. He presses a soft, open-mouthed kiss to Spock’s throat, lingering over the pulse point for several beats before tucking his face into the same spot. Spock falls asleep only moments later, limbs loosening where they drape over Jim’s back and legs, leaving Jim to cling tightly and swallow against the sympathetic knot in his throat until he slips back into an uneasy sleep.

The next two days are filled with travel preparations of all kinds – they both choose to take a shuttle to Riverside, where Spock will proceed then on to the larger spaceport outside Toronto. They select shuttles that return on the same day a week after departure because if they stay away longer and miss the monthly poker night, there’s a significant chance that McCoy and Uhura will show up on their doorstep with some terrifying form of punishment for daring to violate the sacred rite of bridge bonding that it turned into sometime in the second year of the mission.

Near three in the afternoon on the second day, Jim remembers that it’s Thursday and they’re expected at Sulu’s family’s house for dinner. He flies into a brief panic due to the fact that he’s never met any of Sulu’s relatives and doesn’t know what to bring along as a gift, before Spock finds him on the floor of the small office scrolling through a PADD full of suggestions and informs Jim he’s taken care of it. Apparently Sulu’s grandmother is a horticulturist in her own right, so Spock’s obtained permission for a clipping from the Gralaxthian bloodvine maintained in the ship’s greenhouses. Aside from being a rare specimen she wouldn’t be able to get otherwise, the vine has healing properties as well – on humans, it clears up sinus irritation instead of purifying the blood of a buildup of poisonous gases like on the Gralaxthian natives, but that’s more useful anyway. Jim has a moment where he thinks he could kiss Spock for taking care of it, then realizes they’re not on the ship and he has no reason to restrain the impulse.

Jim insists they show up ten minutes early for dinner, just in case Sulu’s grandmother is as terrifying as he’s been led to believe. Later, he’s glad they did, because she absolutely is.

Sulu answers the door already looking exhausted, but makes an impressive hosting effort nonetheless. “Kirk, hey – Mr. Spock, how are you? Come in,” he says, stepping back to let them into the entryway. As they pass through the doorway, Sulu sees the bloodvine Spock’s carrying and perks up a little. “Good for you, Nana’ll love you for that. She’s in the living room if you want to give that to her yourself.”

“Thank you , Mr. Sulu. Have you and Mr. Chekov enjoyed your break thus far?” Spock asks politely, and Jim has to stop himself from choking at the use of such an emotional word. Even when applied to another person, hearing it from Spock is just _weird_.

“Yeah, it’s been great! We actually got our hands on one of the new shuttle prototypes Starfleet’s testing right now – the handling was beautiful, but it had a bit of trouble shifting between the speed settings. Flew Chekov over the ocean and turned around over Russia, just for kicks,” Sulu finishes with a proud grin.

Christ, and Jim thought Spock was oblivious about the first four failed attempts where Jim tried to ask him out. He could be completely wrong, but he’s really hoping that the two of them are just keeping private about it for a while. Jim notices there’s already a sizeable pile of shoes by the front closet as he kicks off his own dress shoes and seizes the topic so he doesn’t wind up laughing. “We’re not the last ones here, are we?”

“No, no, Scotty and Nyota said they’ll be late. You want anything to drink? Dinner’s going to be served in a few, so I can get you then if you want.”

Both of them pass on the offer and head out to where everyone’s gathered in the living room. Nana Sulu is a commanding presence in a sleek armchair in the corner of the room, and wraps up her conversation with McCoy as Jim and Spock approach.

“Good evening, Mrs. Sulu,” Spock greets her, extending the bloodvine in its reinforced pot. “Our thanks for hosting our crew for dinner.”

Nana Sulu lifts an eyebrow as soon as Spock starts speaking – probably from Spock’s voice, not that Jim can blame her. He’s quite aware of the effect it can have. “Commander Spock and Captain Kirk, I presume? And what is this?” She carefully takes the plant from Spock’s hands, curiously inspecting both the pot and the clipping as she rotates it to get a complete view.

“It’s a Gralaxthian bloodvine,” Jim offers. “Hikaru told us how interested you are in medicinal plants, and infusions of this clear up colds right away.”

After pinching one of the bulbs protruding from the main body of the vine, she nods in satisfaction and places it on the coffee table in front of her. “Sounds interesting indeed. Thank you both for bringing it – and of course I had to have all of you over, otherwise Hikaru wouldn’t introduce me to anyone other than Pavel. Speaking of whom – the two of them should have the table set by now. Is everyone ready to eat?”

To Jim’s great relief, it seems like Sulu was right about the bloodvine – it seems to have placed them in Nana Sulu’s good favor. He’s even more relieved to find himself sitting between Spock and Sulu’s younger sister, who’s considering Starfleet anyway, on the other end of the table from Nana Sulu. Jim likes her, but he’s glad he doesn’t have the stress of keeping up a good impression while devouring his portion of the amazingly good potato-and-pork stew provided. Seriously, he would think Spock is _missing out_ except for the fact that his soup with dumplings and vegetables looks just as good.

“So do you have a specific area of interest in Starfleet?” Jim asks Kaede, when he remembers to slow down. He’s still not over the amazement that comes from having real food after years of replicated substitutes, especially when the real food is this delicious. At least Kaede looks like she’s enjoying her grandmother’s cooking just as much.

She shrugs. “Maybe Engineering? Either that or the computer sciences division. I have degrees in both, so I’ll probably wait to decide until I’ve gotten a sense of both programs at the Academy.”

“Sounds smart. Yeah, Spock’s going to be teaching some computer science classes this year, and Scotty’s probably going to do something with the Engineering cadets while we’re docked. You should talk to him when he gets here.”

“Are you going to teach anything?” Kaede asks.

Out of the corner of his eye, Jim sees Spock shift interestedly towards their conversation while still carrying on a debate with Chekov across the table. “Maybe. I’m not sure yet what I’ll do. A captain’s lost without his ship, right?” He forces a laugh and segues into an explanation of different aspects of Academy courses, relieved to see Spock refocusing away from him.

Scotty and Uhura’s arrival ten minutes later brings another distraction when Jim introduces Scotty to Kaede and lets the two of them discuss the application of engineering degrees to the Academy’s program. Jim has to step in from time to time, drawing on his own experiences in the basic warp courses required of all cadets when Scotty occasionally goes quiet and stares distractedly into his bowl. It’s not unusual for Scotty to tire from excessive exposure to new acquaintances, but talking about his department usually circumvents that difficulty, and Jim suspects there’s something else occupying his mind at the moment.

He keeps an eye on Scotty for the rest of the dinner, though, and notices him perk up slightly once Uhura ventures over his way during after-dinner drinks.

Considering the sense of wrongness he gets from the whole production, Jim’s not terribly surprised when the first words out of Spock’s mouth once they’re in private are “Nyota informed me that she and Mr. Scott wish to speak with us when we return home.”

“Fuck,” Jim says, slumping slightly against the seat of the cab. There was no way he could be reading Scotty so wrong, but if Uhura’s involved in this, it’s not just one of his moods. Even for a genius, he’s not too well-adjusted to lengths of time spent away from his comfort zone, which would’ve at least been temporary. “Is it bad?”

“I am uncertain, but Nyota did not appear overly concerned. Slightly unsettled, but not far beyond the norm.”

That makes Jim feel a lot better, honestly, because if Uhura feels like it’s something she can handle, she’ll take care of it. Still, he reaches out across the seat and tucks his hand between Spock’s chest and the bend of his elbow, knowing Spock understands his worry for his crew.

“When are they coming over?” he asks.

“The day after our return.”

Jim nods briefly. They’ll get it all sorted out, whatever it is. Jim just hopes he doesn’t get blindsided with an unexpected reassignment request or something of the like.

* * * * *

The Riverside shipyard is more crowded than Jim remembers, but that’s likely due to the fact that three Constitution-class ships are now under construction, part of Starfleet’s program to get the fleet back up to size within ten years. It’s an ambitious undertaking, but from what Jim sees out of the dirty window of the shuttle, it’s going apace. The sight of the elegant ships, partially finished though they are, sends a pang of homesickness through Jim. For someone who’s never had a home he’s been attached to enough to miss, it’s a feeling he’s still adjusting to, but he’ll take it after the years of drifting through Iowa.

The crowd means it takes the shuttle a while to find a berth to land in, so Spock has to rush to catch the shuttle that will take him on to Toronto and his family. They say goodbye in a dusty corner of the shipyard – no more than a press of their sides together, with Jim’s arm going around Spock’s waist for a quick squeeze before he has to leave.

“Comm me when you get to their house and get settled,” Jim reminds Spock. “Doesn’t matter what time it is. And you know you can come back down here and visit or go back to San Francisco if the visit doesn’t work out, right? Mom would love to meet you if she gets the chance, and you’d probably get on fine with Sam.”

“I will manage to remember,” Spock says dryly, but his fingers brush against Jim’s in a discreet kiss as Jim draws his arm away. So apparently _Vulcan_ PDAs are acceptable – Jim files that away for later. “I will see you in a week, Jim.”

Jim sticks around to make sure the shuttle takes off without any complications and then heads off, hailing a cab as soon as he exits the shipyard. The fields of Iowa slip by as the cab speeds towards his mother’s house, the height afforded by a hovercar affording Jim more of a view to both sides. Not that it’s much to look at, or has changed much since his last visit.

The house and his mother haven’t changed much, either, and when Sam arrives the next day he’s much the same as well. Conversation flows easily, considering the amount of time between both of their last visits and this one, which Jim counted on in steeling himself to agree to this visit instead of having his mom just stop by on one of her visits to San Francisco. With his working knowledge of the science department on his ship, Jim finds himself able to keep up with Sam’s explanations of his work, making the catching-up process a bit more bearable.

Away from the ship _and_ the Academy, Jim grows increasingly restless. It’s a trait his mother shares but his brother doesn’t, and why Jim finally figures out that yes, he does have to do _something_ with his time while they’re between missions, and if it isn’t useful he might well go crazy. He’s not sure what the San Francisco equivalent of feeding pigs and changing the oil on his mom’s ancient tractor is, but he’s fairly certain it would drive him crazy with Spock out of the house and at the Academy, where all the others are busy being brilliant as well.

So he sits down with his mom over the kitchen table, talks over the bored sighs of his older brother and includes him by asking about a researcher’s perspective, and starts making a list of Academy classes he’d like to man for the next two semesters – three if he wants to keep going over the summer semester next year, which could very well happen. Starfleet always stood as a barrier in their relationship, taking Winona far out of comm range for months at a time, but now her expertise in the running of science vessels comes in handy. Jim spends hours laboring over ways to improve the deficiencies she mentions – star security cadets typically get assigned to higher-risk ships, and combined with the general inability of most scientists to aid in ship defense, it leaves far-flung research vessels at a loss when attacked. It’s not how Jim imagined spending the week with his mother and brother, but it probably results in a more enjoyable time since they don’t become sick of pleasantries and stilted discussions of the details of their personal lives. 

It’s a pleasant if overall dull visit, and Jim counts it as productive. He steps onto the shuttle that will take him away from Riverside with a solid plan for lobbying to get the classes he wants.

He already knows who he’s going to approach about the classes. It’s more expedient to get permission directly from an admiral, and Jim only knows one member of the admiralty who will always take his side.

* * * * *

Coming back makes the entire trip worthwhile, and Jim finds himself sleepily wishing to be home as he sits on the shuttle, then realizes with a start that he’s referring to an apartment instead of only the ship. Of course, that’s mostly because it’s _Spock’s_ apartment and usually has Spock in it. Two comms and a vidcom didn’t come anywhere close to cutting it when Jim’s used to seeing Spock every day, and he has a brief moment of worry that he’s less independent than he used to be but shoves it away quickly because it doesn’t matter, really. He’s changed since the days when he _was_ independent, and now that he’s responsible and has a great career and amazing friends that have turned into family, he thinks it’s okay to be a little bit dependent on all of them.

Except the apartment is dark from the street when Jim gets out of the cab. He hears the faint whistle of the cab taking to the air and speeding off by the time he summons the energy to shoulder his duffel and head for the door.

He’s set up as one of the building’s occupants, so he has no issues getting up to the apartment itself. Once he steps inside, it becomes painfully obvious that he’s the only one there; even if Spock didn’t have any of the lights on in any of the rooms branching off from the entryway, he’d never set the temperature so low. Jim punches in a command on the small computer console in the kitchen and hears the heating kick in almost immediately, starting the task of bringing the temperature up to their compromise for human and Vulcan norms. He’s not sure if Spock will even be back tonight, if his shuttle’s this delayed already, but he’ll stay optimistic about it.

The exhaustion from the past week of family interaction piled on top of travel stress hits Jim as soon as he reaches the top of the short staircase, and all intentions of checking what food is still good fly out of his mind. He’s on vacation; he’s allowed to _not_ push on through tiredness for once, and collapses onto the bed with that in mind.

He’s half-woken from a haze of sleep an indeterminate number of hours later by an insistent pressure on his shoulder. Unable to keep his eyes open for more than a few seconds at a time, he blinks repeatedly until he can see well enough through the darkness still present in the room. Can’t have been too many hours, then.

“Hi,” he mumbles when he realizes who it is. Not that there’s anyone else who _should_ have access to the apartment without Jim or Spock to help them inside, but hey, maybe Ambassador Sarek decided to stop by for a visit.

“Please move,” Spock says tersely, and Jim has a few seconds of confusion resulting from such a unique greeting before he remembers he fell asleep in the middle of the bed. When that registers, he rolls over to his side obligingly, leaving enough space for Spock to get in on the other side.

“I really want to hear more about how it went, but in the morning, okay?” he says, and receives no response. Jim looks over at Spock and sees he’s out for the count, decides that Spock is clearly on board with this decision, and falls back asleep.

To Jim’s surprise, he wakes up in the morning before Spock does. By the roughest of estimates, Spock has been asleep for a solid seven hours at least, nearly twice the usual amount of time he allows when given the choice to regulate his cycle of sleep and meditation. It’s a bit worrisome. Jim considers the merits of a wake-up blowjob to really get Spock going before he decides his mouth tastes too disgusting from being open all night and settles for poking Spock on the shoulder instead.

“Jim.” Somehow, his name comes out of Spock’s mouth with all sorts of disappointment laced into it, even before Spock has even opened his eyes. Then Spock’s eyes actually open, and it’s a testament to how much Jim has missed him that he doesn’t jump back.

“Why the extra sleeping and the creepy eye thing? You’re not sick, are you?”

Spock blinks several times in rapid succession, and while it makes his third eyelid retract somewhat, it’s not entirely concealed. Still, it doesn’t bother Jim as much this time as it normally does – absence and all that. “No. I was unable to meditate properly during my stay and am overtired as a result.”

Jim nods against the blanket and scoots closer now that there’s no chance of catching anything, leaning into Spock’s slightly colder body. “From what, nerves? It seemed like everything was going well when you commed.”

“The reunion proceeded smoothly as could be expected, given that the last time I spoke with any of them was when I was six Terran years of age,” Spock says. “It was merely difficult. My grandfather was xenophobic, and while none of his children or grandchildren adopted his belief, they are largely unaccustomed to contact with non-humans. They meant well, but were unable to entirely restrain skin-to-skin contact.”

“Nothing too bad, though?”

“No. It was indeed beneficial, as you said.”

“Good.” Jim rolls away, kicking at the sheets until they untangle from his legs enough for him to escape. He stumbles to his feet as Spock watches on, a disgruntled little line between his eyebrows. “So would you say you’re fully rested now?”

“Suitably, yes,” Spock says cautiously. Given the other suggestions Jim has made in the same tone of voice, he’s probably right to be suspicious.

Jim grins. “I didn’t get to shower last night when I got in. Travel grime, you know what I mean? Gotta get it off, so I’m going to shower.”

He hasn’t entirely given up on subtlety or finesse, now that he’s in a long-term relationship, but it’s nice to be able to slack every once in a while. They’re both tired from visiting family, so Jim thinks it’s okay to let his technique slide for now.

It turns out it works just fine, anyway, since Spock starts the arduous task of extracting his legs from his layers of blankets as soon as the words leave Jim’s mouth, a definite look of interest in his eyes. Relieved at the success, Jim heads for the bathroom and remembers to quickly brush his teeth before starting up the shower. Very few things turn Spock off more quickly than morning breath, he’s discovered – and he doesn’t care to know why, considering the first and only time he asked out of curiosity came with a long-winded description of the differences between oral bacterial flora in Vulcans and humans. Considering Spock got to find out one of the quickest ways to turn _him_ off that time, Jim prefers to just accept it and move on.

Jim’s halfway through his shower and wondering how the hell he misread Spock when the shower door opens and lets all of the built-up steam billow out. “You better warm me back up,” he grumps as he turns around, feeling the air take on some of the chill from the rest of the bathroom. Technically, letting Spock catch him in an embrace doesn’t help much, but any negatives of having Vulcan-cool skin pressed against his chest vanish when Spock presses a small packet into his hand and retreats out of the reach of the shower’s spray.

“Yeah?” he asks articulately, as if he couldn’t tell from the fact that Spock is bracing his folded arms against the shower wall and tilting his ass away from the cold tile.

“Was one week too short of a wait?” Spock asks archly, in a voice Jim suspects he used on unruly cadets prior to the mission. Which, funnily enough, draws his mind to Spock in his instructor’s uniform, freshly tailored to his measurements after five years of slimming to optimal amounts of lean muscle to fuel his whipcord strength. Opening the packet becomes marginally more difficult after that due to his eagerness to get at the contents, and ends with Jim squelching the contents all over his left hand.

Gathering the lube onto his fingers so it’s not all smeared uselessly over his palm, Jim asks, “Sure this is enough? Hold on, I’ll grab some more in a minute –”

“Unnecessary,” Spock interrupts. Jim has no clue why he’s so insistent until his thumb is tugging at Spock’s rim and meeting already-loosened muscle, and he realizes why exactly Spock took so long to pick up on his paltry attempts at innuendo.

“Way ahead of me,” Jim says with a happy sigh, slicking over the head of his dick with the lube. After a week alone, the feel of his own hand combined with the sight of Spock’s ass requires a quick squeeze around the base of his cock to prevent getting ahead of himself.

While seizing Jim’s arm to reel him in closer, Spock glances downwards and raises an eyebrow. “Clearly not,” he says, making Jim laugh and then mouth at his neck. The delay’s a bit painful, but the water that’s managed to bounce off the walls and hit Spock’s neck and back makes the sight too much to resist. He drags a few fingers down to Spock’s hole just to check he did a thorough enough job – well, no, Spock is thorough in everything he does; Jim just likes the way he goes lax against Jim’s body when he has fingers up his ass. 

When Spock’s graduated to clutching hard at Jim’s forearm to the point where it’s nearly painful, Jim lets up on him and withdraws his fingers, bumping the head of his cock against the entrance instead. He eases in slowly, aware of how sensitive Spock gets in the months between the occasions when he asks Jim to fuck him.

He gets _tight_ , too, and Jim lets out a long sigh against Spock’s shoulder as he gives a few short thrusts to make sure Spock’s on board. Everything’s too slippery for comfort, so Spock shifts to brace one arm against the side of the shower so that he’s balanced between two walls, head still resting against the arm folded in front of him. In his impatience, Spock pushes his ass backwards and winds up fucking himself deeper onto Jim’s cock, making his expression suddenly go slack as he leans more heavily on the wall. His eyes shut of their own accord, and Jim carries on thrusting deeper to encourage him, thrilled to see Spock so obviously happy about this. He knows Spock doesn’t always like being so visibly undone, but when he does want it, he doesn’t hold back.

“Missed you so fucking much,” Jim mumbles against the wet skin of Spock’s neck when he’s able, then snorts in amusement. “Missed fucking you so much, too.”

“I understand now why humans hold romantic declarations in such high regard,” Spock says, the effect somewhat ruined by his ragged gasps echoing around the enclosed space, audible even over the drumming water.

Jim can’t help a breathless laugh even though he’s struggling for control, the sight of Spock’s lean back and bitten lips sending him towards climax. If he’s going to be quick about this, so should Spock, so Jim makes sure he’s braced well against the wall before he starts jacking Spock at a fast pace, exactly how he likes.

Spock muffles his low groan in his arm too late, and after Jim rubs his thumb in a few firm circles over the skin at the base of his shaft that covers his internal testes, Spock shoots against the wall and sags against it regardless of the mess. Jim shuts his eyes against the sight of Spock getting his come all over his chest and fucks him through it slowly until Spock reaches back weakly and settles his hand on the small of Jim’s back, encouraging him to keep going. Once he speeds up again, it’s only a few more minutes before Jim comes inside Spock and leans into him, trapping Spock in a sated embrace against the wall.

As Jim pulls out, Spock turns and leans into him, speaking into the damp shell of Jim’s ear. “I certainly hope you have cleaned off the ‘travel grime,’ as you put it. I believe I will require assistance with washing myself.”

Jim laughs and kisses him, glad to be home.

* * * * *

Just like they said, Scotty and Uhura show up on the doorstep on the evening of Jim and Spock’s first day back from their respective visits. Jim cooks, and Spock buys a pie from the bakery down the road, and Scotty and Uhura act puzzlingly normal for the entirety of the meal.

They’ve finished dessert and have taken their coffee out onto the sofa before either of them bring up their reason for visiting. “We have a favor to ask of you – mostly Spock, though it would also affect you, Kirk,” Uhura begins, with no trace of hesitation in her voice at all. Based off of Scotty’s behavior at the dinner, Jim expected something unpleasant at the least and devastating at the worst, but he can’t find any trace of either in Uhura’s mannerisms now. “It’s significant, so we’d like you to think it over if you want, and please do ask us any additional questions you might have.”

“What’s wrong?” Jim asks, sticking to his impression from Scotty. He’s the more emotional of the two, and as long as one of them is worried, he’ll stay worried.

Scotty speaks up next, casting a glance over at Uhura. “We were at an appointment before we got to Sulu’s house. Fertility doctor, no offense to McCoy’s sickbay. It went a bit over, so we were late getting to dinner, because – well, we were expecting it for a while now, but turns out crawling around the engines isn’t so good for havin’ little ones. Equipment’s fried, as it were.”

Uhura pulls a face at his colorful phrasing, even if Jim’s been told on strictest confidence that she finds it as hilarious as Jim does – they wouldn’t be indefinitely engaged if it was otherwise. “So we could either find a donor for his job or we could adopt, and we decided on adoption. Since the upgrades mean there will be several crewmembers’ children on the ship for the next mission, and since they’re likely to be a diverse bunch, we thought we’d adopt one of the Vulcan orphans.”

Next to Jim, Spock sat straighter than usual, regarding Uhura and Scotty with a slightly wide-eyed look. Jim isn’t sure what exactly that means about his reaction to the news, but he’s just relieved that they’ll be back for the next mission and are healthy, and kids? He is _so_ ready to be the cool uncle who runs the starship.

“Because of the regulations on adoption right now, we’re asking you to be our cultural sponsor,” Uhura continues, brow furrowing slightly at Spock’s unclear body language. “Keeping up the child’s education on their culture is a lot of time, I know, which is why we’re asking you to consider it for now and let us know when you’ve decided. We have a few more months until we need to officially file the application so that we get a placement before the ship leaves.”

“There is no need for consideration,” Spock says, still focused intently on Uhura and Scotty. “Your request honors me and my House, and I accept without reservation.”

Unable to keep silent any longer despite the formal feel of the words, Jim adds, “You guys are going to be the _coolest_ parents. Do you think Starfleet’s going to change the rule about no kids on the bridge since they’re changing the rule about no crewmembers’ kids on the ship? Because maybe it’ll make Chekov feel better if he’s not the youngest one on the bridge from time to time.”

“It’s not done yet, Kirk,” Uhura says, rolling her eyes, but at least it’s amused. He thinks so, at least. Maybe he’s just in a good mood because other than Bones, none of his close friends have any kids to bring on the ships, and Joanna can’t exactly visit often even with these new regs.

“But we’re hoping it’ll work out!” Scotty says, grinning with excitement now that they have approval from Spock. “You were the last piece of it before we apply, Commander. If we’re lucky, we’ll get a placement before we ship out, and if not, we’ll just have to wait ‘til the next time the ship gets over to the colony to pick ‘em up.”

“Have you informed anyone else?” Spock asks, radiating contentment so strongly that Jim can feel the side effects even on the other end of the couch.

Uhura shakes her head, and Scotty says, “Figured we’d wait ‘til we got your answer! Not much point getting anyone excited about it when we’re not sure. Guess we can now.”

“If it’s official enough to spread the news, it’s official enough to celebrate. The hell with coffee; I’m grabbing some champagne,” Jim says, getting up from the sofa.

Scotty pulls a face. “Never understood – why d’you celebrate with that? If you’re looking to feel happier about news, you just need a bit of whiskey, and you’re there faster.”

“You have champagne?” Uhura asks doubtfully, raising an eyebrow.

“Replicated,” Jim responds cheerfully. “Tastes like shit, and I don’t even know if it has real alcohol in it, but it’s the principle of the thing.”

He hears scoffing behind him as he moves away into the kitchen to access the replicator, but holy _shit_ , two of his officers are going to have a kid. Two of his best friends, and he’s already so proud of them already for settling into a permanent relationship that fits them so well, and that’s part of the reason they’re going to be such awesome parents. Jim’s allowed to get worked up about this; Spock’s role in the kid’s life means Jim is allowed to claim uncle status.

As he punches in the order for champagne, he makes a note to check how much influence interplanetary ambassadors have on rushing adoption paperwork. Since a certain ambassador is quite pleased at Jim’s level of commitment to his son, Jim might as well get Scotty and Uhura a push to speed along the process.

* * * * *

Pike’s assistant smiles sunnily at Jim once he enters the office – significantly larger than the one Pike had as a captain, which leaves Jim suitably impressed. “The admiral had a slight emergency arise half an hour ago. He shouldn’t be too late for your appointment. Sorry for the delay, Captain Kirk.”

Jim returns the smile easily and walks straight up to the desk, reading off the nametag. “Thanks, Cadet Rand. Hope it’s nothing major.”

“Oh, no, just a mix-up. Though Admiral Pike _has_ had some real emergencies come through, so it’s never boring around here.”

She’s earnest for a cadet, especially one with a position that means she must fend off her share of assholes. Jim wonders how she’s kept that intact so far at the Academy. “Sounds like it. Pretty impressive that you’ve snagged admiral’s assistant, too - what year are you?”

“Fourth,” she replies, glancing down at a comm unit on the desk. “I’m set the graduate in the spring.”

“What kind of duties are you looking for? Ground, starbase, starship?”

“I haven’t decided yet. Wherever needs my management skills the most, I suppose.”

He wonders if Pike will even let him steal her, if he’s taken a shine to those management skills. After five years of active service, Jim has a healthy appreciation for the amount of work a good yeoman can eliminate – or create, if they transfer. “Well, I hope you don’t rule out ship duty. Admiral, how are you?” he calls, seeing Pike’s door slide open.

“Stop harassing my assistant and get back here, Kirk,” Pike calls back, and Jim laughs as he says goodbye to Cadet Rand and enters the office, taking the seat across the desk from Pike.

“What problems are you stirring up now?” Pike asks as soon as the door slides shut behind Jim.

“Admiral, I am _offended_ ,” Jim says in a paltry defense. “And I’m here to relieve some problems, if you’ll let me.”

“I knew I should’ve passed your request to Barnett,” Pike grumbles, propping his chin on one fist. The arm supporting him is presumably resting on the chair, which he keeps out of sight even years after the surgeries stopped. Adjusting to life in a chair doesn’t mean Pike’s gotten over the trauma of it yet, though Jim hoped that would’ve changed since he last saw Pike in person. “So what’s your idea?”

“Let me teach a few classes,” Jim responds promptly. “I have it on good authority that there are some practicalities of the service that don’t quite make it through in the self-defense classes, especially for non-Security cadets, and you know how half the admiralty creams their pants over the results of my command team’s strategies. I can teach some of those practical details so everyone’s more prepared, leave behind the course plans so they benefit from it even after the next mission starts, everyone’s happy and safe and gets to keep all their limbs.”

Pike raises an eyebrow, clearly doubtful. “Your affinity for academia doesn’t happen to stem from the fact that your boyfriend’s instructing this year, does it?”

“Hey, our proposed courses are in completely different departments! And I honestly want to do this. Cadets need to be better prepared in certain areas, and having a strong command team sends the mission success rate skyrocketing. I don’t know if I’d want to teach more traditional courses in other areas, but these? I definitely do.”

Pike sighs. “I’ll send the forms to your PADD. Turn that spiel into decent course proposals and I’ll see if I can get you approval for the classes, alright?”

Even with the anticipation of getting his plans for the year in line, Jim knows enough of Pike to be suspicious of the easy acceptance. He knows the areas he wants to cover are sorely lacking in the current offered curriculum, but it can’t be this simple. “Any reason you’re giving me approval right away?” he asks, cocking his head at Pike.

“Well, who do you think is going to volunteer to supervise the classes?” Pike says dryly. “Has to be more exciting than another class on alien plants or Federation history. Besides, that means I get to sit in on a few lessons, heckle you to make sure you do a better job, and yell at you if you’re out of uniform or breaking any other rules.”

“Save me from admirals looking for revenge,” Jim grumbles, slumping in his seat. Pike just laughs at him.

“I’ll send the forms over right away, so get home so you can fill them out,” Pike advises him. “Lots of writing for you, Jim.”

“Fine, fine,” Jim says, standing and heading for the door. “See you around, Chris.”

“I’d better see you around. Send my best to Spock!”

* * * * *

Six days after Jim submits his final course plans to Pike, a message appears on his PADD from the Academy registrar. Spock’s off visiting Scotty and Uhura to discuss the upcoming adoption, so Jim opens it up from his seat on the couch as soon as he gets it. In print, the Academy designates him as instructor for the two classes he designed, effective at the start of the fall semester. Jim only scans the information below it, too full of excitement to pay full attention, and barely catches a notice about obtaining a new set of uniforms from the Academy quartermaster. After dashing off a note to Spock, Jim heads out the door and catches a cab hovering nearby to take him to campus.

Turns out the officer in charge of distributing uniforms used to be one of the building caretakers for anything the automatic cleaners couldn’t handle, and considering Jim’s propensity for engaging in one-upmanship contests with the Engineering cadets, he isn’t one of the man’s favorites. Instead of using the perfectly functional body scanner in the back to determine his current measurements, the man forces him to sit through a tedious session done by hand with old-fashioned measuring string, which takes half an hour instead of two minutes. Jim’s suspicious of the officer’s claim that the scanner’s malfunctioning, but he’s not in enough of a hurry to call him on the lie.

It takes five minutes for the man to input Jim’s measurements to the Academy database and replicate three complete uniforms after that, and Jim’s on his way as soon as the uniforms are in his hands. On the cab ride back to the house, Jim gets a message from Spock apologizing for the delay and that he’ll be back in twenty minutes. And, well – if Spock’s not home, Jim has an idea about how to put the uniforms to best use.

By the time Spock returns, Jim’s changed into one of the uniforms and has hung the others in the closet. He’s sitting at the kitchen counter and munching on a peach when Spock walks in and looks blankly at the uniform.

“Jim?” he asks, though there’s no way Spock is unsure about what exactly it means.

“For a temporary assignment, the uniform looks damn good on me, am I right?” Jim says, grinning with the success of surprising Spock. “And thanks for letting me help out with your class proposals – made my own go a hell of a lot faster.”

“You have settled into the idea of a year away from the _Enterprise_ , I take it?” Spock asks, coming up behind him. Jim leans back against Spock’s chest and watches with amusement as Spock’s eyes flick to the movement of Jim’s shoulders, their breadth accentuated by the black fabric.

“Well, it helps that everyone else is sticking around San Francisco, so it won’t be too bad. I figured this is the best way to keep me from turning into the bored husband who stays at home all day, _and_ the Academy also gets the gift of my presence again. It’ll be a good year,” Jim says decisively.

Spock lifts one eyebrow. “I am grateful you have finally decided so,” he replies, and sends a significant glance towards the uniform again. “Would you please accompany me upstairs?”

“You’re lucky I’m in a good mood, because that wasn’t even subtle at _all_ ,” Jim informs him, obligingly heading towards the stairs. Spock follows a few steps behind for reasons Jim thinks he understands, considering he’s spent his fair share of time admiring Spock’s ass in fleet uniforms. Once he reaches the bedroom, Jim turns and sees that Spock’s caught up with him before he’s suddenly lifted and placed into the middle of the bed. There’s enough room for him to sprawl out over the entire surface here while Spock bends to bite gently along Jim’s jawline, and _yes_ , he admits it, the bed is one of the better aspects of living off the ship.

The solid black slides off Jim’s shoulders easily, and Spock trails open-mouthed kisses down the revealed skin, provoking a flush that appears every time he leaves a small mark in his wake. By the time he reaches the top of Jim’s pants, Jim is loose and pliant against the mattress, completely content with letting Spock continue as he chooses. Spock deftly unzips the pants and briefs beneath and pushes them to the floor, then returns to Jim’s mouth as he starts on removing his own clothing.

“You – help me here, dammit, you’d better not be stopping –” The unfocused glare leveled at Spock isn’t his best by any means, but Spock indulges him anyway and slips the instructor’s uniform further down Jim’s arms, tangling it intentionally around his wrists.

When Jim realizes what he’s done, he scowls and struggles briefly before resettling back against the pillows to get more comfortable. “Smug bastard,” he says with a scowl, belying his words by drawing Spock in closer with legs wound around his waist. As he does, the material around his wrists shifts and tightens, and his dick jumps a little at the sensation. Usually Spock’s able to hold him down with one hand whenever one of them wants some restraint, and the novelty of having both of Spock’s hands all over him because of the actual _material_ restricting his movement is enough to turn him on even more. Still, Jim starts complaining some more to maintain his reputation, or else he and Spock will end up having wild and amazing sex all over the apartment and his new appointment as instructor will go to waste.

But then Spock’s hand winds into the space between them and Jim’s words turn into a whimper halfway through. His hips snap urgently upward in a desperate bid for more contact, more friction to compensate for not being able to touch in return. Even though he’s certain he looks as ridiculous as he feels, with his torso pinned to the bed by gravity and his face flushed from the effort of moving in this position, it’s apparently working for Spock – he’s fallen forward to press close to Jim, flirting with the line where the uniform collar begins as he sucks more marks into the collection he started earlier.

From the sound of it, Spock’s barely holding it together as it stands, so maybe it’s for the best that Jim’s hands are taken out of the equation. If the instructor’s jacket was gone, Jim knows one of his fingers would be a dry tease around Spock’s hole, and he might be jacking Spock off with his other hand instead of leaving him to rock clumsily against the bedding. _Definitely_ for the best, then, since the memory of other times spent doing exactly that is enough to send him spilling all over the sheets, while Spock abandons his neck and strokes him through it, pulling his hand away just before it’s too much – one of the advantages of touch telepathy Jim has benefitted from many times over the course of their relationship.

With some careful movements, Jim manages to get his arms under him enough to flip over on his stomach with the side of his face pressed into the pillow, offering an alternative to the mattress until he finishes. “Come on,” he says encouragingly when Spock hesitates, craning his head back to look at him. Jim shoves his ass back to brush against Spock’s dick as incentive, which prompts Spock to give in and resume his frantic pace towards orgasm, cock sliding smoothly along the crack of Jim’s ass. Given the lack of lube, it’s enough friction that Jim’s cock makes a half-hearted attempt to get hard again, especially when he looks back again and sees Spock biting his lip to restrain any noises he might otherwise be making.

Jim stares against sleep-heavy eyes, entranced, and ignores the protesting twinge in his neck. It’s worth it when Spock abruptly falters, arms trembling on either side of Jim as he comes messily across Jim’s back, the sight and sensation making Jim shut his eyes and moan out his approval as Spock gives a few last satisfied thrusts before falling onto the bed next to Jim.

“I’m liking this bed more and more,” Jim mumbles. The words are half-hidden in the pillows, but Spock hears them anyway and quietly adds his agreement. “Help me out with the jacket, though?”

With great effort, Spock levers himself up and leans over Jim, easily stripping the uniform jacket from his wrists and tossing it over the side of the bed.

After a long pause, Jim says, “Well, I guess that answers the question of whether or not I can put off doing laundry any longer.”

“Do you remember the steps, or must I assist you with this as well?” Spock asks.

Jim snorts and rolls away, swinging his feet over the side of the bed. “Ha, look who’s funny,” he says over his shoulder as he heads into the bathroom. He’s reaching for a washcloth to clean off his stomach when he realizes has no idea how to best reach his back to completely clean off the come there. Abandoning the washcloth, Jim steps into the shower instead and does his best to scrub down, feeling immensely relieved when he dries off afterwards and doesn’t feel sticky or itchy in the slightest.

Spock has somehow managed to wake himself from his sex coma and change the sheets on the bed within the space of the five minutes it took for Jim to shower and return to the bedroom. It’s kind of impressive, and Jim chalks it up as another Vulcan superpower and flops down on the fresh bedding appreciatively. He’ll clean and hang the uniform among his and Spock’s later.

After a few minutes of staring up at the ceiling and listening to Spock carefully settling into a comfortable position under more blankets than should be legal on such a nice afternoon, Jim asks, “What are my chances of convincing you to fuck me over your desk if I’m wearing the uniform? I want a realistic estimate.”

“Go to sleep, Jim.”

“When we wake up from this nap, I’m getting an answer. Even if I have to consult Chekov.”

“You will not consult Chekov,” Spock says accusingly, as though Jim has betrayed him.

Truthfully, Jim understands where Spock’s coming from. “He’d do it for me, you know,” he replies anyway, just to be contrary.

Spock sighs, a small exhalation of air that Jim can barely hear but tells him he should probably stop annoying the boyfriend who just gave him a great orgasm and some clean sheets. “Guess I can’t ask the kids; it’d be weird,” he relents, and scoots over to lay his head on Spock’s pillow.

At least he’ll get to test his chances over the next year anyway. A great crew, the _best_ boyfriend, and a kid joining the family soon – Jim thinks he’ll survive until the ship launches again.


End file.
